"How much further to this village of yours, Somala?"
"We are there now, Sidi. What you call one hour's march."
"Always that `one hour' story!"
And the speaker turns away somewhat shortly. The question, put in a
kind of mongrel Swahili dialect, was put shortly and with a touch of
impatience, for the torrid equatorial heat makes men irritable--white
men, at any rate--and the first speaker is a white man. The second is a
negroid Arab, hailing from the island of Pemba.
Through the moonlit forest the long file of men is wending, like a line
of dark ghosts. There are perhaps three score of them, and most of them
carry loads. Some few do not, and of such are the two who have been
conversing.
"But," rejoins the Arab, "it may be written that when we arrive there we
shall find no village. Mushad's people have been busy of late, and this
village lies in his return path."
"I don't care whether we find any village or not, so long as we find the
water," is the reply. "What do you say, doctor?"--relapsing into
Anglo-Saxon, as he turns to another man, the only other white man of the
party.
"Why, that it's time we did find some. This swamp water is awful bad
drinking stuff."
Under the broad moon it is almost as light as day, and as this strange
band emerges into an open space its concomitant elements can be seen to
advantage. The man who had first spoken, and who seems to be its
leader, is tall, supple, and erect, with straight, regular features; the
lower part of the bronzed face is hidden by a thick brown beard, not
guiltless even here in these wilds of some attempt at trimming. This,
together with his alert and weather-beaten appearance, gives him a much
older look than his actual years, for he is quite a young man. The
other, he addressed as "doctor," and whose speech is dashed with just a
touch of the brogue, is much older. He is a man of medium height, with
a quiet refined face, and his hair is just turning grey. Both are armed
with a double-barrelled express rifle, revolver of heavy calibre, and
sheath knife. The Arab, Somala, and a few others are also armed with
Martini rifles; but the bearers of the loads, who are composed of half a
dozen nationalities, carry no firearms, though each has a sheath knife
of some sort strapped round him--long or short, straight or curved or
double-edged, but all wicked-looking weapons enough.
The line swings along at an even, wiry-paced walk, to the croon of some
wild, weird melody. Then, as, the open space passed, they re-enter the
forest shade, they stop short, the whole line telescoping together--
loads colliding, and men falling with them in confusion. For, from the
sombre, mysterious depths in front comes a most horrible and appalling
sound.
A scream, so awful in its long-drawn intensity--so fraught with terror
and energy and despair--surely such a cry could never have issued from a
human throat. Louder and louder it peals through the grim midnight
shades, as though some unknown and gigantic monster were in the last
throes of a despairing struggle with countless and overwhelming
assailants. Of those who hear it, the superstitious natives huddle
together, and trembling in every limb, too scared even to bolt, stand
bunched like a flock of bewildered sheep. All save a few, that is, for
those immediately in attendance on the leaders come of more virile
nationality. Even the two white men are conscious of a wave or
superstitious fear thrilling through their veins, possibly the result of
climate and condition.
"Sidi," whispers Somala, impressively, indicating the direction whence
proceeds the horrible sound, "the village is yonder. Mushad has been
there, and that is the voice of the dead."
"Not so. It is the voice of some one or something very much alive,"
answers the leader. "And I intend to find out all about it. Eh,
doctor?"
"Why, of course."
"Those who are men and not cowards, come with me," says the leader,
shortly.
Not a man of his armed followers hangs back. Even the frightened
porters, in terror at being left to themselves in this demon-haunted
place, will not stay behind; for, like all natives of an inferior sort,
the presence of a resolute white man is to them a potent rallying
influence.
Soon the forest opens out again, and there, in the moonlight before
them, lie the thatched roofs of a considerable village. Again peals
forth that awful, blood-curdling scream, proceeding right from among
those primitive dwellings.
"Come along! Let's make a dash for it!" warns the leader, under the
natural impression that some human victim is being barbarously done to
death at the hands of its inhabitants. His swarthy followers do not
share this opinion, their own pointing to the supernatural, but they
will go with him anywhere.
Even as they advance, quickly but cautiously, the leaders are wondering
that no volley of firearms or spears greets them. There is something of
lifelessness about the place, however, which can be felt and realised
even before they are near enough for the scattered skulls and bones to
tell their own tale. Now they are through the stockade, and now, rising
from right in front of them, peals forth that awful scream once more,
and with it a most horrible chorus of snapping and growling and
snarling. And rounding the corner of one of the primitive buildings the
whole explanation lies before them. A weird and terrible sight the
broad moonlight reveals.
In front of one of the huts is a human figure. Yet, can it be? It is
that of a man of tall and powerful build, his body covered with blood,
his clothing in rags, his hair and beard matted and streaming, his
rolling eyes starting from their sockets. In each hand he brandishes a
short white club, consisting, in fact, of the leg-bone of a human being,
as he bounds and leaps, yelling his horrible, maniacal scream; while
around, on three sides of him, a densely packed mass of beasts is
swaying and snarling, now driven back by the sheer terror of his
maniacal onslaught, then surging forward, as the man, ever keeping his
rear secured by the hut door, retires again.
But it is an unequal combat that cannot last. Even the prodigious
strength and courage of the assailed cannot hold out against the
overwhelming numbers and boldness of the assailants.
Then the tables are turned--and that with a suddenness which is almost
laughable. Their approach unperceived, these timely rescuers simply
rake the closely packed mass of hyaenas with their fire. The cowardly
brutes, driven frantic with the suddenness and terror of this surprise,
turn tail and flee, many rolling over and over each other in their rout,
leaving, too, a goodly number on the ground, dead or wounded. The
latter the natives of the party amuse themselves by finishing off, while
their leaders are turning their attention to the rescued man.
"I say, old chap, you've had a narrow squeak for it," says the younger
of the two. "We seem to be only just in time. Good thing you yelled
out as you did, or we shouldn't have been that."
The other makes no reply. Gazing vacantly at his rescuers, he continues
to twirl his gruesome weapons, with much the same regularity of movement
as though he were practising with Indian clubs prior to taking his
morning bath.
"How did you get here?" goes on the leader, with a strange look at his
white companion.
"Eh? Get here? Ran, of course."
"Ran?" taking in the woeful state to which the unfortunate man had
manifestly been brought. "Why did you run? Who was after you?"
"The devil."
"Who?"
"The devil."
"But--where are your pals? Where are the rest of you?"
"Pals? Oh, dead."
"Dead?"
"Rather. Dead as herrings, the whole lot. Fancy that!"
The coolness with which the man makes this statement is simply eerie, as
he stands there in the moonlight, a horrible picture in his
blood-stained rags. More than a doubt as to his sanity crosses the
minds of at any rate two of his hearers. Nor do his next words tend
towards in any wise dispelling it.
"They were killed, the whole lot of them. Cut up, by Jove! I'm the
only man left alive out of the whole blessed crowd. Funny thing, isn't
it?"
"Rather. Who killed them, and where?" And there is a note of anxiety
in the tone of the question.
"We were attacked by Rumaliza's people couple of days' march back. They
surprised us, and I am the only one left alive. But, I say, don't
bother me with any more questions. I'm tired. D'you hear? I'm tired."
"I expect you are. Well, come along and join us. We're going to camp
down yonder by the water. You'll want a little overhauling after the
cutting and wounding you seem to have gone through, and here's the very
man to overhaul you--Dr Ahern," indicating his white comrade.
But the response to this friendly overture is astounding.
"Oh, go away. I don't want you at all. I didn't ask you to come, and I
don't want you here bothering me. When I do I'll tell you." And
without another word the speaker turns and dives into the hut again.
The two left outside stare blankly at each other.
"A clear case for you, doctor. The chap's off his chump. Say, though,
I wonder if there's anything in that yarn of his about being attacked by
Rumaliza's people."
"Might easily be. We'll have to keep a bright look-out, if any of them
are around. But we must get him out."
"We must."
The same idea was in both their minds. It was not a pleasant thing to
have to creep through that open door with the probability of being
brained by a powerful maniac waiting for them in the pitchy darkness
beyond.
"I'll strike a light," says the younger of the two men. And, taking out
his match-box, he passes quickly through the aperture, at the same time
striking a couple of wax vestas.
The object of his search is lying in a corner. Beside him, gleaming
whitely, are two fleshless skeletons. There is a third, all battered to
pieces. It is a weird and gruesome spectacle in the extreme.
But the unfortunate man's dispositions seem scarcely aggressive as they
bend over him. He does not move.
"He's unconscious," pronounces the doctor. "That simplifies matters.
Pick up that end of him, and we'll carry him out."